


Emilie

by incorrectbatfam



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Original Character(s), Other, POV First Person, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:15:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24259516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incorrectbatfam/pseuds/incorrectbatfam
Summary: She was nothing short of a masterpiece.
Relationships: Original Character(s)/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 3





	Emilie

She was nothing short of a masterpiece.

I hear her whispers in the night as I lay upon on this cold, lonesome bed that we once shared. I still feel the touch of sleeves of her smooth silk nightclothes too long for her arms and her hair cascading down like a bronze waterfall, accentuated by a sky of dainty freckles all over her skin. Her phantom is there, smiling. Whispering her midnight muses about love and war and passions and dreams. 

Dreams. Dreaming. At first, I did not believe in them coming true. Like many adults, I regarded dreams as nothing but fantasies of children who don’t know the grim nature of the world we live in. Not a single soul I met possessed the youthful aspiration and optimism.

Then I met Emilie.

I was a barista at a local coffee house. A quaint place whose revenue was almost entirely based on regulars going in and out like clockwork. I had the entire routine memorized. Morning black coffee and buttered croissant for the gray-haired professor in beige blazers. Afternoon hot oolong for the tuxedo-donning businesswoman with an afro. And of course, I always saved a late-night chamomile for our resident insomniac insurance agent.

But I had never seen Emilie before.

She came in and took a look at the menu before turning to me, asking what I recommended. I was at a loss for an answer because nobody had ever asked that before. It just wasn’t done. Customers knew what they wanted before they even set foot in the door, and their preferences seldom changed. I glanced at the black chalkboard menu and gave her the first item I saw: peach iced tea.

She smiled, a single dimple caving in on her left cheek. 

“I’ll try that then,” she said.

Perhaps I was a young person with an impulsive heart, or perhaps love at first sight was more than a myth. But I stood, register open for me to return her change. And I just stared. Her cool blue-gray eyes drew me in like a tropical storm and paralyzed me like venom. The sparkle in it was reminiscent of the silver lining in every cloud. A handful of coins rested on the countertop, and I watched as she scooped it into a little pink change purse.

“One peach iced tea for Emilie,” I called out, positive that my voice cracked somewhere.

She took it with a smile and silent thanks, for she had a phone pressed to her ear talking to somebody else. 

I remembered every time I saw her like it was yesterday—she became a new regular. Except unlike the others, no two orders were the same. The second day she came, she got a caramel macchiato. The third day was a pistachio muffin. Fourth, fifth, and sixth was an egg sandwich, green tea, and sugar cookie, respectively. The seventh day, she told me to surprise her. And every day, she looked like a new person. The first time Emilie came in, she wore a simple pink sundress and a wide-brimmed hat. Then she did a one-eighty and returned with a white pantsuit, then black biker leather. She was of an unpredictable nature and soon became my favorite part of this otherwise monotonous job.

One day she asked me if I wanted to visit a film festival to see a science-fiction movie that her brother made. She told me her friend canceled at the last moment and she had an extra ticket. I could only nod numbly as she gave me her number.

Thankfully for me, conversation came naturally once the nerves faded. When we talked, it felt like we had known each other our whole lives. She brought out a real smile in me that I thought was dead for so long, and I did the same for her. We spent days and nights just...talking. She told me about her dreams of moving to another country and opening a bookstore, for she always had a love of stories. I opened up about my secret dreams of becoming a writer. About how I wanted to change the world through the power of words. For the first time in my life, instead of belittling or ridiculing my goals, someone smiled and told me that if I loved something, never let go.

The first time I told her I loved her was by the rose gardens in the park. We parked our bikes on the side of the cobblestone path and walked together hand-in-hand. Somewhere along the way, a honeybee got stuck in the absolute mess that was my hair. Internally and externally, I freaked out, but Emilie was ever so soft and gentle, untangling and releasing the little yellow insect without anybody or anything getting hurt. She waved a little bye-bye to the bee as it flew away like it was a kid on the first day of school.

“See, that’s why I love you.” My words were. “You’re remarkable.”

The most astonishing part? She said she loved me too.

I never anticipated how soon I would find my small apartment decorated with potted sunflowers and yellow fairy lights. Or how my kitchen stocked itself with Emilie’s favorite truffle chocolates and cranberry juice, or how her guitar leaned against the leather sofa next to her favorite winter parka. And the drawers being divided between our clothes? Well at that point, I had to give her a key. 

Seasons changed. Months turned to years. We had our conflicts like all partners did, but we were happy. Emilie made a good salary, but she jumped from job to job. Meanwhile, she also began to save money for that dream bookshop. I moved from being a barista to being a well-paid freelance designer. And in my spare time, I drafted the first pages of a book, but discarded them in the fireplace shortly after. We moved to a bigger place. Repainted the walls with colors that really popped and built furniture from old items. Emilie even adopted a small ginger kitten that she found in the rain on the sidewalk. 

It all seemed too perfect. Then she wanted children. Neither of us could conceive, but Emilie was persistent. 

“We’re getting older. We don’t have much time left,” she said. “We could get a surrogate. Or we can adopt, like so many people do.”

I wanted to make her happy, but I knew deep down that I couldn’t support a child. Not financially with our unstable jobs. Not emotionally because I couldn’t find the capacity. I tried to appease her in other ways, suggesting we get more pets or move to a neighborhood with lots of young children. She was persistent, though, and the disappointment in her eyes was a pain I wish I didn’t have to feel. 

“I’m sorry, Emilie. I love you, but...I can’t make you happy,” I said. “I know you have all these dreams of opening a business and traveling the world and having a family, but I can’t dream as big as you do. The world is your oyster and I don’t want to hold you back.”

Though I wanted her to be happier, something in me broke when I woke up only to find her and her things and even the cat gone without a trace. The air felt cold in the absence of her sunlight. My mind knew she was better off chasing her big ambitions, but something felt...not right. I called her friends and they told me she went to visit her parents across the country. I called her parents and they said she was on a business trip. Nothing I did came close to giving me closure. It was like she vanished from all planes of existence except my memories.

I was younger then.

Now? Well, I had time to think. Plenty of time. Time that healed the wounds of heartbreak and longing, but not without its scarring. And now I’m graying like the man I used to serve coffee and croissants to, but none the wiser. My nightclub dancing feet grew heavy and tired and my back stopped bending like it used to. I managed to write a book after all, but only after my fingers got sore from typing. I tried to meet people over all these years but none of them understood me the way Emilie did. Occasionally, I still laid awake, spending my nights daydreaming of what might have been. 

I couldn’t and I didn’t wallow in sadness forever. Life goes on. And now I’ve saved enough in my retirement funds to take the vacation I always wanted. So I booked a flight to Europe and kicked back with a glass of wine as the airplane sang over the clouds.

As I strolled the uneven streets, an overhanging wooden sign caught my attention. It was carved in an antiquated style with gold letters written on it, saying, “E’s Shoppe”. There wasn’t much in the already small display windows. Out of curiosity, I opened the door leading to a musty array of shelves and tables.

“What’s your story?” a woman, who I can only presume was the manager, asked. 

She had hair as white as ceramic tile that hung a little past her collarbone. Her skin sported wrinkles gathered like crumpled-up paper. Her eyes bore the remnants of time and experience, yet somehow...this woman radiated almost a young-at-heart energy.

“Me?” I looked around, confused.

“Yes, you. You look like you’ve lived a long one,” she replied serenely.

“Long doesn’t mean interesting, ma’am,” I said, tracing over the shelves of storybooks, many coated in a layer of dust that must’ve accumulated for a long time. 

“It’s unique to you,” she said. “You look like you’ve come quite a ways. What brings you to a small store like mine when you could be seeing famous landmarks instead?”

I shrugged. “I dunno. But I could use something to drink. Do you have anything?”

She unlocked the door to a back break room with a couch and a beverage dispenser. “How does some peach iced tea sound?” 


End file.
